


Summer Secret

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Make-outs, Perthshire, Pre-Canon, Sci-Ops Era, Scottage, Smut, Sneaking Around, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Fitzsimmons are spending a blissful month away from Sci-Ops at Jemma's parents' summer cottage in Perthshire. Everything is perfect -- until they realize they have the hots for each other and have to stop themselves constantly making out in front of Jemma's parents.





	1. Chapter 1

“You really don’t need to—”

“Jemma, just drop it, I’ve already said I’ll do it.”

“But you’re our _guest_!”

“And your dad’s cooking is making me pleasantly plump, this is the least I can do as thanks.”

Mrs. Simmons appeared in the doorway to the patio, where Fitz and Jemma were arguing. “Salad – table,” she said, knowing anything more would get lost in their rapid conversation.

Fitz took the bowl she held out and headed for the picnic table, Jemma trailing him across the grass. “It’s only a few days, anyway.”

“But it’s so _small_!”

“So am I, to be fair.” When Jemma didn’t respond, Fitz scowled at her. “Of course that’s the one point on which you don’t fight me.”

Jemma sighed and looked back at the cottage. How they’d fit in a second floor was beyond her and her exceedingly-above-average knowledge of geometry. The ceiling on the ground level was so low that her father’s head came quite close to touching it, and he was himself only a few centimeters taller than Fitz. A normal-sized group of people would have a much more difficult time of it.

“You’ll feel claustrophobic.”

Fitz – having deposited his precious cargo – regarded her calmly with his hands on his lower back. “It’ll feel homey. Like a little cave, a hideaway.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mother called out again and forestalled her latest rejoinder. She pointed a threatening finger at him and trotted back across the lawn to grab the utensils and napkins.

When she returned, Fitz was spreading the stack of plates out around the table, and Jemma worked beside him in silence for a moment before she sighed and set down her last fork and knife.

“Thank you, Fitz,” she said, somehow equal parts grudging and gracious. “It’s very good of you to offer. And I’m sorry I was being so stubborn. I just want to be sure you’re having as lovely a summer as I am.”

Fitz smiled. “Don’t worry, I am. And nothing – not even a small room – will change that.”

He hugged her about the shoulders with one arm, somewhat tentatively, then jogged back to the patio to see what else needed to be carried out for dinner.

Jemma settled into one of the chairs set out in the grass and leaned her head back, exposing her face to the golden sun of a Scottish summer evening. Only three days in and she already felt more relaxed than she had in years. She and Fitz had saved up all their vacation time and taken some unpaid leave from Sci-Ops to boot, allowing them to spend the whole of August with her parents in Perthshire. The garden was flush and slightly wild, the surrounding countryside offering fresh berries and peaceful walks. And the cottage was just as she’d remembered it from childhood, quaint and cozy and perfectly sized for her little family.

Well, until now. Her cousins on her mum’s side were arriving in the morning, causing a massive shuffle of sleeping arrangements. Cots had been borrowed from far-flung neighbors, all the linens washed and aired on the laundry line, and it had been determined that someone would need to kip in the tiny attic bedroom, for which Fitz had volunteered, leading to the argument they’d just been having.

Fitz was making his way back to her, a wobbling tower of condiment jars tucked under his chin. He, Jemma had to admit, was a not-insignificant part of what was making this such a lovely holiday. She’d always loved their family vacations as a child, but there’d been a great deal of loneliness, wishing for someone her own age to play with. Then came Fitz.

It was probably for the best, as far as everyone else was concerned, that she and Fitz hadn’t known each other until they were sixteen. They could’ve caused a great deal of mayhem with their bored intellects and childish lack of forethought.

Fitz stooped to pluck a wildflower and tossed it at her; it fell far short. “C’mon, lazybones, your dad said to set up badminton round the side of the house. I can finally trounce you in something other than pinball.”

“You didn’t _trounce_ me, you smacked the side of the apparatus in the middle of my game…”

 

 

 

The arrival of the relatives the following morning turned the peaceful cottage into a whirlwind of shrieking voices and overturned chairs and endless laughter. Jemma, who’d known all her young cousins from when they were babies, fell easily back into their games, but Fitz was more hesitant, having been alone even longer than Jemma. But he followed her about hesitantly, quietly observing and smiling at the children’s antics, and when little Maisie adopted Fitz as her favorite (wrapping his curls around her chubby forefinger and blowing raspberries into his armpit), any remaining awkwardness dissipated.

(Jemma loved her family for it, from her parents to her aunt and uncle down to the newest baby, for how readily and effortlessly they gathered Fitz into their chaos.)

All this was how they found themselves, shortly after lunch on the visitors’ second day at the cottage, in a madcap game of hide and seek. The cottage may have been tiny, but every participant applied him or herself to finding new nooks and holding out to be the last found.

Maisie stood on the back patio, counting as loudly as her little lungs could manage (and often skipping a few numbers – she’d only done one year of school, after all), while the others scurried for cover, frequently crashing in the middle of hallways and dissolving into giggles. Jemma went for the main bedroom but found her uncle and eldest cousin already stowed under the bed, so she hurried back into the living room. Maisie had nearly reached one hundred (“seventy-eleven, seventy-twelve…”). Not for the first time, Jemma wished she’d taken more proper espionage classes back at the Academy.

There was nothing for it. She flung herself into the coat closet between the front hall and the living room, squeezing as far back into the musty dark as she could. The closet was built in proportion to the rest of the tiny house, which meant even she with her petite frame felt squeezed.

Her heart was thrumming, as it always did with this silly game. The stakes were so low, the chances of success so poor, and still the thrill of it was positively infectious. Even if she did lose, she’d get to help Maisie track down the others, and they’d cause a lovely ruckus together.

The closet door flew open just as she heard Maisie bellow, “ONE-HUN-DIRT! READY OR NOT—” and Fitz looked in, panicked. He saw Jemma and cursed.

“Sorry, didn’t realize it was occupied – I’ll just—”

Jemma grabbed him by the front of the shirt and dragged him in. The door snapped shut and they both tumbled back through the coats together.

She hadn’t planned it well – not at all. She’d simply reacted to the situation, to Fitz being left out in the cold. She’d always been stupidly willing to stick her neck out for him – she’d probably flunked her field exam for that reason.

But the closet really _was_ small. And as they’d fallen backwards, Jemma had ended up with her back against the wall of the closet, clutching Fitz’s arms, and Fitz – well, Fitz was everywhere.

With only the sliver of light from under the door, she couldn’t properly see him, and that seemed to amplify her sense of touch. She could feel every plane of Fitz’s body where he was pressed against her. One hand, stretched out to stop their fall, was planted next to her head; the other was spread against her waist, steadying her, warm and broad. His knee had ended up between her legs. The fabric of his trousers rubbed at the bare skin below her shorts; the muscles of his thigh were tensed. Under the scent of the lavender washing liquid her mum had used on all of their clothes, his deodorant was sharp and heady.

Jemma felt like her skin was aflame.

A patter of tiny feet went by the door, and Jemma held her breath. Or rather, _kept_ holding her breath, because with Fitz this close, and her body reacting this way, she didn’t dare move. Their chests were already smushed together as it was, and breathing would only accentuate that. But she could feel Fitz’s labored breathing on her forehead, and her abdomen clenched as she realized how close his face was to hers.

He must’ve felt her grip tighten on his arms, because the air moved as he looked down at her.

Without thinking, Jemma pressed up onto her toes—

They had the barest warning, the jostle of the door handle, to tell them to jump apart – and they did, though it might’ve been better to remain as they were. Instead, they toppled through the coats once more. Now Fitz had his back to the wall next to the door, and Jemma, who’d already been off-balance as she leaned up towards him, fell to her knees in front of him.

Fortunately it was only Maisie, not one of the other adults, who opened the door to find Jemma with her face level with Fitz’s crotch.

“You lose!” Maisie cried, delighted, not the least perturbed by her cousin’s strange position. “Now you have to help me find the others!”

Jemma followed the little girl out into the blinding sunlight, face burning, unable to look at Fitz. She could feel him behind her, just as silent, just as tense.

_Shite._

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

In the afternoon Fitz and the Simmonses and their guests sat outside for tea and biscuits and fresh fruit from the market stand just down the way. Jemma had spent most of the day since hide-and-seek in the excruciating limbo between wanting to act normal, which would mean being within a foot of Fitz at all times, and not feeling normal at all. She felt like a spotlight was following them about. Surely everyone else would notice how they kept glancing at each other, mouths open to start a conversation, then blushing and looking a way, falling over themselves to get distance that they couldn’t seem to maintain for more than a few minutes away before drifting inexorably back towards each other. In this way nothing _had_ changed, it all _was_ normal – except now proximity meant yearning to face what she’d felt in the closet and distance meant a steady ache of wanting to be closer.

Though truthfully, she now felt that ache even when he was right beside her.

The important thing, at this moment, was to maintain the charade. Yes, certainly, she became a little breathless when she saw the curve of Fitz’s neck into his shoulder as it disappeared beneath his collar, but _they_ didn’t need to know that. Not now, when she hadn’t even had a chance to broach the subject with Fitz, and possibly not ever.

All this to say, Jemma was more than a bit flustered when she returned from the washroom to find all the chairs at the picnic table already occupied.

Fitz, of course, immediately registered the source of her distress and rose. “Oh—”

Some of the smaller cousins were already sharing chairs, so she couldn’t exactly ask _them_ to budge up. Unfortunately, Uncle Robbie had had a similar idea.

“Why don’t you just sit on Fitz’s lap, Jemma?” he suggested, his jocular grin leaving no doubt that that seating situation would _not_ be interpreted innocently.

“Oh, I don’t think—” Jemma spluttered. “I couldn’t—”

“I’ll just—” Fitz tried to step aside to offer her his chair and tripped over its legs, barely catching himself on the back of Jemma’s father’s chair.

“Robbie,” chided Jemma’s mother. “Leo and Jemma are just friends.”

“ _Best_ friends,” Jemma corrected, out of habit, only realizing when everyone started laughing that Fitz had same the same thing. She caught his eye and flushed, but her fingertips tingled at the way he looked back at her.

“What’s so funny?” Maisie squeaked from where she’d squished in between her brothers. Jemma dared everyone, with a glower, to answer the question.

“I’ll get another chair,” Fitz mumbled, and he hurried past her towards the house. Jemma considered following him – it’d be their first moment alone since the closet – but at this point it would look too obvious.

So she sunk into his abandoned seat and focused on keeping her mouth full of strawberries so no one could involve her in the conversation.

Throughout the teatime, Jemma watched Fitz furtively over the rim of her mug. He was as quiet as she was, so she couldn’t study him under the pretense of listening to his contributions to the rapid jokes and occasional arguments around them. He was moving the remains of his fruit around on his place with a fork, his fingers curled elegantly around the utensil. His tongue protruded slightly as he focused on drawing some pattern in the juices. Jemma could just see a dusting of biscuit crumbs at the corner of his mouth, just next to the inviting pink of his tongue. She wished he’d lick it away. Or better yet, maybe _she_ —

He glanced up at her suddenly, tongue curling over his bottom lip and drawing it between his teeth, and she choked on her tea.

She was saved from further ruin by the sudden opening of the skies above them. Fitz had warned them that a Scottish summer was as unpredictable as an English one, and today the weather seemed determined to finally live up to its reputation.

The various members of the party laughed and screamed as the rain hit them. Amidst confused shouting, everyone gathered up the nearest items from the table and the cushions from the chairs and ran back to the house.

“Is that everything?” Jemma panted, shimmying a bit to get off the excess drops after she’d handed her dad the last dirty dishes.

“I think s—oh, where’s Maisie got to?” her mum sighed, glancing around and doing a quick headcount.

Jemma ran back into the downpour, but through the heavy grey sheets she could see Fitz ahead of her, jogging across the lawn. Maisie was spinning in a circle, heedless of the mud accumulating on her new shoes, head back as she beamed up at the sky. Fitz swooped her up and brought her back in.

“Silly Maisie, you can drown looking up in a thunderstorm,” Fitz scolded as he set the little girl down in the tiny back hallway. He knelt to help her off with her shoes and her sodden sweater.

“I think that’s turkeys,” Jemma chuckled. Fitz threw her a half-grin.

“Soon there’ll be _puddles_!” Maisie cried, and without the remotest segue she stomped away (as if already traipsing through the after-storm delights) between their legs towards the voices from the other rooms. “Puddles, puddles, puddles…”

Fitz straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans, still smiling. Jemma couldn’t help but mirror him. Without thinking, forgetting the burning electricity that had been making her a mess all day, she reached out to brush the droplets from his thin beard.  

Fitz looked down at her hand and she froze. The air around them in the back hall was humid with the moisture and heat rising from their bodies; it felt thick and viscous and conductive. Fitz was still breathing quickly from nabbing Maisie, and his drenched t-shirt left very little un-imagined. The rain pounded on the patio past the still-open door, muffling the voices of the others in the house, nearly convincing Jemma they were alone.

She let her hand fall back without touching him. But Fitz, his gaze strangely intent, raised his own hand to her cheek, where he peeled away a sodden strand of hair that had become stuck to her skin and tucked it behind her ear. It was a bit silly, fixing that one tendril when she must look like Medusa, she thought, even as she felt his fingertips skate over her ear, even as she tipped towards him, even as she thought – no, she _saw_ – he tipped towards her as well.

“Jemma! Fitz!” her dad called, a second before he rounded the doorframe. Jemma wasn’t totally able to stop her momentum, even as she tried to move _past_ Fitz instead of _into_ him, and her nose collided with his shoulder. “We’re to watch Teddy’s last recital before we crack out the board games, full attendance required. Your nose alright, dear?”

When they arrived in the living room, Fitz and Jemma (who was still holding a hand gingerly to her sore nose) found all the seats occupied.

“Here you are!” Uncle Robbie beamed, popping up off the middle cushion of the sofa and taking the arm instead. “You’re both rather petite, as it were, sure that’s enough space for you.”

Afraid to make yet another fuss and call attention to the situation, which prior to the closet would hardly have been an issue, Jemma squeezed into the proffered seat, making herself as small as possible, which wasn’t saying much as there wasn’t really any way to go about shrinking her hips or shoulders. Fitz hesitated before following her in. The cushion dipped beneath them, tipping their bodies towards each other so their thighs were flush.

Uncle Robbie looked happier than Christmas morning.

Jemma didn’t catch a moment of Teddy’s recital. She gazed fuzzily at the screen, recognizing that her cousin and other vague forms were moving about there, but every bit of her was oriented towards Fitz. She’d folded her arms, then clutched her hands in her lap, then clasped her knees. What did she normally do with her hands?? Ordinarily she’d have tucked her legs up underneath her, not caring if they spilled over a bit onto Fitz’s lap, but that somehow seemed too intimate of a sudden. She could feel Fitz’s leg trembling slightly and was tempted to lay a hand on it, to calm him, to soothe herself.

There was a flurry of excitement about ten minutes in, when Teddy had a solo (or so Jemma gathered, hazily), and as the rest of the family laughed and clapped and looked around at Teddy, Fitz cleared his throat and extended his arms across the back of the sofa. The brush of his fingers against her bare shoulder was electric, erotic, sinful – surely everyone could see her whole body reacting – she couldn’t look at him, not with his jawline that close, so she glanced down instead, just to be sure her, em, appreciation of his touch wasn’t showing through her shirt—

What was he thinking, _honestly_? Not that she minded, but if he felt as she did – and, since the charged moment just then in the hallway, she couldn’t deny that her fledgling hope had bloomed into a burning certainty that he _did_ – he’d need to get on board with remaining covert around the others. They couldn’t start a romantic liaison during a viewing of a child’s recital – it was simply _improper_. Even if she _was_ of half a mind to trace the back of his ankle with her toe.

 

 

 

Jemma drank well on several pints of water at dinner, just to be sure she had a proper excuse to keep getting up in the night. Each time, someone was still in the kitchen, or chatting in the dark of the living room by the stairs, or bumping into her in front of the loo. She’d hoped for the dampening cover of the rain on the roof, but that had petered out, and she could only rely on the silence and stillness of sleep to make her excursion.

She’d considered, several times, changing out of her pajamas. But then, it’d look weird, wouldn’t it, showing up in the middle of the night fully-dressed. Like a kidnapper, or something. _Besides, if Fitz doesn’t find me attractive in my pajamas – I’ll just have to take them off._

 _What am I to say?_ she wondered, as she finally tiptoed up the stairs, listening for the barest stir from her sleeping family. _‘I like the feeling of every part of your body on every part of mine?’ Genuine Casanova, you are, Jemma Simmons._

She nearly banged her head on the low rafters of the tiny attic space. Maybe _that’s_ why Fitz had seemed so responsive to her today: he’d clearly been concussed. She thought about turning around again, but a soft sleepy noise came from the cot at the end of the room and her heart dragged her towards it.

There was no window up here, so Jemma felt her way towards the cot until she tripped over it and fell onto her bum somewhere near Fitz’s knees. He gasped and jerked awake; Jemma fumbled for his face and, finding it (“Sorry!” she whispered as she poked his eye), pressed a hand over his mouth. His lips parted in surprise and she felt them brush over her palm, his breath cool on her tingling skin.

“It’s me,” she whispered. “I can’t turn on the light – everyone down below would see. And we can’t speak up either, or they’ll hear. This cottage is minuscule.”

She felt him nod slightly, and then his fingers found hers, loosening her hold and bringing their hands away from his lips. Her eyes could just see his outline, but it was still so dark that they kept close, hands on elbows and shoulders and hips as they tried to orient themselves to the other.

“Everything okay?” he asked, speaking at last, voice raspy and deep from sleep.

Jemma nodded, then remembered he might not pick up on that in the dark and instead squeezed his elbow and whispered, “Yes, completely okay. I just – I thought we should talk. Without the others barging in.”

“Right.” His thumb was tracing distractingly over her hip. “About the – about earlier?”

“Yes,” she breathed, then felt foolish and blushed, grateful for the lack of light. She’d wanted to be confident about this. “I know it’s – I know it’s silly, to presume that anything has changed – we’ve been friends for six years now, after all, why would it – _now_ – and maybe it’s just the summer and Scotland and finally having a break from the endless work at SciOps—”

“I don’t think it’s _just_ anything,” Fitz murmured.

“Nor do I,” Jemma whispered in relief. “I think it’s – it’s rather brilliant, actually.”

“You do?”

For the first time, Jemma recognized the nerves tingeing his voice. She could’ve laughed that _he_ , of all people -- with his mind she wanted to climb into and his eyes she wanted to swim in and his arms she always knew would hold her – should be afraid of her rejection.

“Of course I do. You’re already the most important person in my life and I – well, if you don’t feel the same way you should just go back to sleep and pretend this has all been an odd dream, but I – I find I’ve gone from wanting to spend every waking moment with you to wanting to spend every waking moment _snogging_ you and that’s bewildering and perhaps inappropriate but really quite lovely and—”

The dark didn’t hinder him from finding her. Before she could even work out where she was going next with her ramble, his hand was twined in her hair and his arm was around her back and he was kissing her, kissing her properly and fiercely, as she’d never even dreamed of being kissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are there many tropes? yes. is jemma coming off as too much of a period-piece romance heroine? possibly. is that a bad thing? I THINK/HOPE NOT


	3. Chapter 3

Jemma stayed in bed just a little longer than normal the next day, grinning stupidly up at the ceiling as she thought of the previous night. The others were already banging about, people coming in and out of the shared bedroom and greeting her, but she could only answer hazily, pretending to still be in the process of waking up. She supposed this was what people meant by an _afterglow._

Not that she and Fitz had done anything more than kiss last night. It hadn’t been recommendable, given the size of the house and the creakiness of Fitz’s cot and the fact that she’d rather like to _see_ him, if they were to have sex. (Twenty-four hours ago she’d have giggled at the thought of sex with Fitz. She was _still_ giggling at it, to be fair, but in the way one laughs at something that is much too close to the truth, or smiles in the face of a tragedy – it was all too much to comprehend and yet so _delightful_.)

So they’d only kissed. She’d felt the smile in his cheeks when she held his face and whispered goodnight, and then she’d slipped back downstairs, no one else the wiser. She’d barely slept since then, but she nonetheless felt invigorated.

The smell of pancakes finally drew her pillows. She emerged in the living room, pajama shirt rucked up a bit as she tossed her hair into a bun, just as Fitz hopped off the last step.

Jemma had to press her lips together to suppress the massive grin his sleepy-eyed, tousle-haired appearance was threatening to prompt. “Morning,” she hummed, hoping he’d catch the emotion in her eyes.

His cheeks darkened pleasantly and he rubbed at the back of his neck, biting his lip in an even worse attempt than hers to stop from smiling. “Hey.”

“Sleep well?”

“Like a baby.”

She glanced to be sure no one else was close enough to hear, then whispered, as coyly as she could manage, “Well, I sincerely doubt _that_. I bet your dreams were _filthy_.” And she darted for the kitchen.

He chased her, drawing up short at the organized chaos that was Simmons family breakfast preparation, but wove past Mr. Simmons setting out various pancake toppings and Jemma’s eldest cousin tending the griddle and made a grab for Jemma’s hand and waist. “C’mere, you—”

Startled, she twisted to avoid contact. Was he _mad_ , being so physical in front of the others? She stepped away before he could do more than brush against her side, hoping it would look like a harmless collision amidst the traffic across the room. Her mum was watching them. Jemma yanked the nearest drawer open and pretended to be looking for silverware or napkins or whatever was in the drawer – she wasn’t really paying attention to the items she was rummaging past, more focused on praying for Fitz to make some space or her mum to look away.

Fitz drew up to the counter next to her. His hands wrapped around the edge of the wood, trembling slightly. “Jemma, wha—”

She tilted her head meaningfully, hoping he’d catch her drift. From the corner of her eye she saw her mum turn back to her cutting board, and Jemma chanced a look up at Fitz – and was horrified what she saw. All the flush and joy and lightness of the morning, all the ecstasy of the night before, was drained away, leaving him looking pale and serious. Had he suddenly fallen ill? But then she saw the look in his eyes, a deep hurt, a protective anger starting to glaze his expression.

When she’d deflected his affection, he’d assumed – he’d interpreted that to mean—

“Fitz,” she said, abandoning all pretense with the drawer, but he just shook his head and slipped away into the little crowd of Simmonses, making himself entirely unreachable.

 

 

“Oh, Maisie, you’re a mess,” chuckled Aunt Judy, trying to swipe some of the syrup off Maisie’s cheeks.

“Saving it for later!” the little girl protested, shoving her mother’s hands away.

“I don’t think there’s likely to be a shortage anytime soon,” Mrs. Simmons assured her, eyeing the plateful of uneaten pancakes, bowls of fruit, and jars of sweet condiments and nut butters.

“We can make a second breakfast out of it in a couple hours,” suggested Jemma. She glanced at Fitz, smiling, knowing that’d be just the kind of idea to make him perk up, but he went on studying his plate in silence as he’d done all throughout breakfast. Brooding and inwardness weren’t unusual for Fitz; even her family knew that by now, knew not to take it personally but to let him have his time and that’d he come out of it on his own. This felt different. This made Jemma’s chest ache.

“Splendid idea, Jemmy,” her father concurred, squeezing her hand. He’d seemed to pick up on some of the oddness between Jemma and Fitz and had showered her in attention during the meal. “Why don’t we dust off my bocce set so we can claim we’ve exercised between the two bouts of breakfast? Robbie and I will clean up the dishes, then—”

“I’ll get the dishes.” Fitz didn’t meet Jemma’s gaze, looking determinedly at Mr. Simmons with what to Jemma was an obviously fake calm.

Mrs. Simmons snorted. “Don’t be silly, Fitz, you’re a guest.”

“My mum would kill me if I didn’t,” he told her, forcing a smile. “’Sides, I’ve always found it calming. Clears the head a bit.”

“Well, you’re going to make some lucky lady a happy bride someday, with that attitude,” Robbie said, standing and clapping Fitz on the back. “Can’t deny him his head-clearing, can we? We’ll get to the rolling of the balls and Fitz can join us when he’s well and done.”

Mr. and Mrs. Simmons protested for a few more minutes, but Fitz was quietly adamant and blocked the sink so they couldn’t do the dishes unless they were to bodily drag him away. Still, both were smiling as they finally left him to it and went to join the others in the back garden.

Fitz turned to face the window, running the tap to fill the sink with hot water, swirling it absently with his fingertips.

“I’ll dry.”

He looked up in surprise as Jemma reached his side. “You don’t have to do that, Simmons. It’s really not that much. It’ll only be a mo.”

She didn’t reply, but pulled out a clean dishtowel and planted herself beside him, looking challengingly up at him.

He scowled but set to work, scrubbing each plate to within an inch of its life – Jemma had _never_ seen him be this thorough with cleaning, as long as they’d been friends; perhaps she should frustrate him more often, if it would motivate him as such – before rinsing it and passing it off to her without a word. She dried each calmly, placing them in a neat stack next to the stove. She kept her gaze trained on the game going on outside, but from the corner of her eye and in the moments when Fitz moved between the sink and table to collect more dishes, she studied the rigidness of his shoulders and the way he kept trying to crack tension from his fingers.

He was mid-scrub of a mug when he set it down forcefully on the counter and leaned forward, bracing himself against the edges of the sink.

“Are you ashamed of me, Jemma?”

Jemma could have smacked him round the tush with her dish towel. “ _What_?”

He turned to face her, hands clenched at his sides, the effect of which was undermined a bit as they were covered with soap suds. His eyes were very wide as they finally focused on her for the first time in hours. “Are you ashamed to be with me? Afraid they’ll know that you and I—”

“Don’t be _ridicu—”_ She drew herself up short. She’d known he’d misread her brush-off earlier, but she’d thought perhaps he’d gotten confused about their kisses being a one-time thing or something, despite how clear she’d thought she’d been.

She glanced quickly through the window to do a headcount and make sure everyone was occupied.

Then, gently, she reached forward and dried Fitz’s hands, knuckle by knuckle, finger by finger, with the towel. When she finished, she kept the cloth loose around his wrists, holding him with her.

“I’m sorry. You’re not being ridiculous. I completely understand why you might’ve thought that, based on how I’ve acted.” She splayed her fingers out over his forearms and felt them tense. “I started to say it was ridiculous because it couldn’t be further from the truth. I couldn’t be _less_ ashamed of you. Fitz—” She saw him react to the slightly desperate way she said his name, a slight uptick to his eyebrows, the barest parting of his lips. She smiled. “Fitz, I’m overflowing with this feeling. I’m giddy about what’s changing between us. I can hardly keep myself from telling everyone. I’m so glad it’s _you_ , of all the people in the world, who’s making me feel this way.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Fitz murmured, blushing like a beetroot, but the soft roundness was back in his cheeks. “Why the secrecy then?”

“My parents,” Jemma said slowly, “had a lot of questions when you and I became friends. And again when we were placed together, and again when we started living together, and again when I asked if we could stay with them this summer. A _lot_ of questions.”

“Yeah, I know the type,” he sighed ruefully. “Get ‘em from my mum every time we talk.”

“To be fair,” Jemma teased, “they’ve been right this whole time, to be asking those questions. We just didn’t know it.”

He dipped his head in acquiescence.

“I never really minded the questions. I could always say with confidence that we were just friends, and I always liked talking about you and the work we were doing together. And while I got the impression that my parents found you pleasant and a good influence and a challenge and so on, I also … I don’t know, I always got the sense they weren’t totally amenable to the idea of us being together, as more than friends.”

Fitz’s mouth twisted as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Huh.”

“Not because of _you_ ,” she rushed to assure him. “I think it’s just, their little girl, you know? Their only child. I’ve never really done anything on a normal timeline and I know when I went to university they were terrified I’d be knocked up by thirteen, and then I wasn’t, but they were never really good at talking about sex and dating, so I just never talked to them about it, and at this point I think they’re hoping I’ll be an old maid!” she concluded, throwing her hands into the air and nearly whipping Fitz across the face with the dishtowel she was still holding.

Fitz turned back to the sink and began to wash the dishes again, sponging the same fork over and over. “Why do you care what they think, though, Jemma?” he asked quietly, obviously aware it was a delicate question. “You’re a grown woman, you can make your own choices—”

“I know that,” she tutted. “And they know that too. It’d be different if they’d ever made me feel anything less than completely loved, but – I love my parents. We have a wonderful relationship. They trust and support me and I always look forward to seeing them. If this is the _one_ thing that makes them uncomfortable, the _one_ aspect of my life I have to hide or lie about or wait to tell them about, after everything they’ve done for me – I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like a hardship to me.”

He was silent for a long time. Maisie was clearly winning at bocce ball; Uncle Robbie’s last throw had somehow ended up over the hedge. Jemma pulled the towel taut in her hands, wondering if this effervescence between them was over before it’d properly begun.

“Fitz?” she asked, when she couldn’t stand it a second longer.

He glanced at her, and the gentleness in his expression was immediately reassuring. “I get it. I do, Jemma. Lord knows I don’t talk to my mum about sex, and though I’ll probably call her this afternoon to tell her about us, I can imagine lying to her about it if I thought keeping her in the dark was what she wanted.”

Jemma cringed. “It all sounds so reprehensible – lying, keeping them in the dark.”

“I didn’t mean it to,” Fitz said quickly. “I didn’t mean to cast judgment. I just – it’s not that easy for me to understand, but I’m trying, and honestly, it’s loads better than what I thought.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Jemma repeated, “I truly am. You looked absolutely miserable all morning.”

“Course I was miserable,” Fitz chuckled. “Last night I got to kiss you and today I had to think about never touching you again? That’s the definition of misery.”

“Yeah, well, just try and keep your hands off me when the others are around, you hear? At least for now.”

Fitz handed her a mug, but he smoothly caught her wrist after the trade-off. When she looked up at him, his eyes were crackling behind his lowered lashes. “For now,” he agreed huskily, his thumb feathering over the soft skin where her pulse was racing. “Because I’m going mad for wanting to kiss you again.”  

 

Fitz was as good as his word. To all appearances, he and Jemma were exactly the friends they’d been the day before and for seven years before that. At second breakfast, which segued directly into lunch, he was back to his reserved but friendly self, even entering into a battle of wits of sorts with Uncle Robbie, who’d seemed to have taken a grandfatherly shine to Fitz. The ease – or, at least, affectation of ease – with which Fitz had accepted her hesitations and agreed to go along with them stirred a different, more profound appreciation for him.

After lunch they all set out for a stroll through the countryside, accompanied by Mrs. MacMillan, the proprietor of their and a few other cottages. She knew all about the local history and some of the flora as well, the better to immerse her seasonal guests in the neighborhood.

Fitz and Jemma lagged towards the back, engaging – initially as pretense, but then in earnest – in a heated discussion of the reproductive properties of a certain Scottish fern. Their incessant, frequently overlapping analyses quickly drove any other members of the party forward.

A few bends in the dirt road beyond the cottage, Jemma grabbed Fitz’s arm and pointed into a copse of trees. “Look, Fitz, there it is!”

“Wha—”

“Just there!” Gripping his bicep a bit forcefully, she called, “Hey mum, dad, I’m going to duck in here to look at this plant. I’ve been dying to get a sample. I’ll just pop in and then I’ll catch up with you all before you reach the crossroads.”

“Take Fitz with you, would you?” Mr. Simmons suggested.

“What, to protect me from the Perthshire ruffians?” Jemma and her mother shared an exasperated look, but she was grinning when she turned back around and grabbed Fitz’s hand to drag him into the trees.

“Did you really see a plant you wanted?” Fitz asked skeptically as they stepped over fallen logs to go deeper into the shade, the others’ voices receding as they continued along the path.

“Of course I did.”

“Where is it, then?”

Jemma leaned against a tree, watching him. “It’s right here.”

His eyebrows were up, his fingertips twitching near his pockets. “I’m not touching anything unidentified, Jemma. That’s how people get rashes and learn about previously undiscovered allergies.”

“It’s on this tree,” she persisted, sliding around it so her back was against it.

He frowned, trying to look around her. “I don’t—”

“Fascinating stuff.” Jemma caught his hand again, linking their forefingers and tugging him towards her. “Merits closer observation.” Once in range, she snagged a button on his shirt and used it draw him near. “You can’t see a thing from all the way over there.”

Cottoning on, Fitz shook his head, nevertheless letting her reel him in. “You little minx.”

“What?” she protested. “Is it _so_ wrong to want a moment alone with my boyfriend?”

“Boyf—?”

“Oh, _right_ ,” she sighed, patting him on the chest. “I always forget, you weren’t top of your class at the Academy, so there are some words that are outside your vocabulary— A _boyfriend_ is--”

Thoroughly provoked, he crowded her up against the tree, his feet between hers so their hips were almost touching. She wouldn’t have been able to say exactly how Fitz looked, nor how she felt – it was something saccharine, supremely pure, but also heated, the way they could finally take their time, the way they could look at each other openly with everything they were feeling.

Fitz traced her jaw with the back of his knuckles, up and down in a mesmerizing adulation that made her tilt her head to ease his way. In turn, she slid her hands around his lower back to grip his belt and press his body to hers.

“I’ve always felt,” she murmured, as his thumb brushed just next to her mouth, “that the anticipation before a kiss could be as tantalizing as the kiss itself.”

 Fitz smirked, leaning in so his lips lingered just against hers, teasing, introducing. “Anticipation is over-rated.”

Jemma pressed forward off the tree to capture him. His lips were as soft as she’d remembered from last night, soft but returning the pressure she offered, matching her, just as Fitz himself always did. It began languorously as they savored the unreality of what was happening, as they tried to experience it all at once, gentle kisses to upper lips and corners of mouths and the heat gathering between them. Jemma found herself thinking about _Fitz_ , about Fitz kissing her and making her dizzy and making her stomach tingle. These thoughts made her smile against his lips and he made a noise of protest as it threw off his rhythm. He tried to correct it by tilting his head, but Jemma took his face in both her hands, equally determined to steer the kiss into wilder waters. Fitz’s lips parted and the coordination went entirely out of the kiss, which became all slanting lips and chasing tongues and Fitz’s hands gripping her waist as she slid up the tree a bit from the force of the kiss.  

“Always a competition with you, isn’t it?” Fitz breathed, gliding over both of Jemma’s lips with the tip of his tongue. “Always a challenge.”

“Oh, but what a _worthy_ adversary I’ve found,” she moaned as he nuzzled down her neck.

He snorted, but accepting the gauntlet she’d thrown down, he guided her hand up his back and into his own hair – _showing me what he likes_ , she thought with a thrill. She clutched the curls as he nudged at the neckline of her shirt with his nose.

“Jemma! Fitz! What’s taking you so long?!”

Fitz, whose chin was comfortably nestled against Jemma’s breast now, whimpered in disappointment at Uncle Robbie’s call from the edge of the trees, but he retreated dutifully, patting down Jemma’s hair while she rubbed the sheen of kisses from his lips. There wasn’t really anything to be done about the slight stubble burn on her cheeks.

“I didn’t even get to give you a hickey,” he pouted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and following its curve down her neck and over her shoulder. “I was planning to find somewhere no one else would see and give you a really good one.”

“It’s always good to have goals for the future.” Jemma tilted her head up to peck him quickly three times on the lips. She couldn’t believe they’d only done this twice so far; it was the most natural thing in the world, somehow, with Fitz. “I know I have a few of my own.”

“Jemma!” Fitz groaned as she started jogging back towards the path. “Jemma! You can’t just _do_ that to a man!”

               

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't exactly what I had planned for the chapter -- some SHIA SURPRISE anxiety swept in and bled in to make for some angst, and I never enjoy writing kisses as much as I enjoy reading how other people write them, like honestly can I hire one of my fave fic authors to write my kisses for me? K thx. But ANYWAY. Hope you still enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jemma whispered.

“Like what?” Fitz asked innocently, though his hand slipped a bit on his pool cue as Jemma bent over the table, the neck of her shirt draping obligingly open.

Her strike was true, sending two of the striped balls into a pocket, bringing her tied with Fitz. She smiled in satisfaction – people always forgot that thought Fitz was an engineer, she herself had on occasion out-performed him in physics seminars and examinations – and sidled over to him, accepting the glass he’d been holding for her. “Like you want to ravish me on the felt.”

She gave him credit – he didn’t choke on his beer, though his cheeks flushed prettily. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, probably only to me. And probably only because I was projecting.”

Fitz shook his head, not following.

“ _I_ was thinking about ravishing _you_ ,” Jemma explained patiently. “Go on, then, your turn.”

As she’d expected, he missed his next shot, rather badly.

“I should know better than to play with you,” he muttered.

“All’s fair in foreplay,” she said cheerily.

“Jemma,” he groaned, for well on the sixth time that weekend, as she sauntered over to make her next move.

It was her extended family’s last night in Perthshire, so everyone of legal age had gathered at the nearby pub – nearby being a half hour drive, in this case; it _was_ the countryside – for a last hurrah. The adults were at a table in the corner, snorting into their drinks at Uncle Robbie’s pantomimes, which were even more elaborate and absurd than normal, even though he as designated driver was drinking only soda water.

Jemma’d promised herself she’d be good, sitting on the other side of the table from Fitz, tucking her feet under the seat so she couldn’t find his to play footsie, focusing on speaking with her aunt rather than becoming hypnotized by the way Fitz’s jawline stood out sharper as he chewed on the free corn nuts. But the tight, loud, raucous, friendly atmosphere of the bar and the heady warmth of the ale she was drinking quickly put her inhibitions at risk. She couldn’t stop glancing at Fitz, her eyes drawn to him even amidst the ample goings-on around them. Her fingers tingled, wanting to spider across the table to him; she kept licking her lips, wondering what he’d taste like tonight, maybe of wheat and hops with an undertone of lime and salt.

Eventually, it’d been nearly too much, and she’d needed to distract herself from drinking and from her failing efforts to play it cool. She’d put the notion of billiards out to the table at large, to maintain appearances, but the adults waved them off.

Now, with them both well towards tipsy and prowling around the pool table, brimming with competitiveness and denied desire and the strain of the clandestine, the tiny bit of Jemma still capable of worry wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to remain at the table with the others, or perhaps to have taken a walk to clear their heads.

Mostly, though, she was alight with the reality of playing and flirting and drinking with her gorgeous, brilliant, cocky, easily-embarrassed, secret boyfriend.

Jemma eked out the win in the end, only using her breasts and sticking out her bum to distract Fitz a few times. She’d never have done it with anyone else, having too much pride in her abilities and a need to prove herself, but Fitz already knew she was damn intelligent and manipulating him a bit wouldn’t change that. Besides, she thought, as she brushed behind him as he set up a shot and saw the back of his neck redden, she didn’t think he minded that much.

As agreed before the start of the game, Fitz, as the loser, bought them both shots. They linked elbows and threw back the gin, which they chased with a local, fruity soda.

“Wish we could go to a movie theater or something,” Fitz sighed as they lounged at the bar, letting other patrons use the pool table for a bit.

“Mmm?” Jemma traced the condensation on the wood of the bar, pretending to be watching the game but really studying the curve from his forehead to his eyebrow, down his cheek, into his lips— “Is there something good out? One of those superhero summer hits?”

“What? Oh—” Fitz blushed again; she really enjoyed making that happen. Her loosened animal brain wondered if his cock and balls would show the same rapidity of blood flow. “I didn’t actually mean – I just thought, where do kids go when they’re trying to snog but can’t do it in front of their parents? And that’d be the movies.”

“There really is nothing out here,” Jemma agreed grimly. “I love it, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always thought you and I could—” Now it was her turn to blush, and she quickly shook her head and avoided Fitz’s searching gaze. “Point is, it’s lovely here, wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, but it’s all fields and trees and wide open spaces with nowhere to be alone.”

Fitz glanced towards the corner, checking that the adults were still fully involved in their conversation, and shifted on the bar stool so his body was mostly obscuring Jemma’s. He slipped his hand over the surface of the bar and under hers, stroking her palm with his fingertips.

“Just another week,” he murmured, eyes focused on the billiards game, though they didn’t move to follow the action, just sort of rested there abstractly. “In another week we’ll be back at Sci-Ops.”

“Alone at last,” Jemma concurred. Following his lead, she slid her free hand into her lap, then over onto his knee and up his thigh. The hand on hers on the bar convulsed at the tracing touches. “One more week.”

Jemma’d been trying to get a rise out of him, letting her fingers drift closer over his jeans towards the crotch, making his leg twitch, but despite the inebriation his gaze was steady, soulful, hungry but controlled. If she was getting a rise out of anyone, touching him like this, it was herself – her chest was getting strangely tight and there was an insistent narrowing of her thoughts and sensations.

“Excuse me, I have to use the loo,” she squeaked suddenly, not trusting herself to stay there a moment longer, and she hopped off the stool and dove through the crowd to the washroom in the corner, hoping Fitz wouldn’t be too put out.

The ladies’ was blessedly empty, so she sat for a moment on a closed toilet, practicing the meditation techniques she’d never really mastered as she stared at the faded red stall door, before she got up and wiped her face down with a wet paper towel. She was as bad as a stereotypical horny teenage boy, for goodness’s sake. She’d always needed porn of some sort, before, to get her going, but now just being near Fitz seemed to be enough. She wondered if she’d be able, from now on, to get herself off just by closing her eyes and imagining his touch—

She glanced at the empty stalls again, considering. It certainly wasn’t the most sanitary of places to masturbate, and she’d have to be quiet in case anyone came in, but she couldn’t very well do it back at the cottage, and it was becoming a rather pressing issue. (Not for the first time, she was glad female arousal didn’t reveal itself quite so… prominently.)

The main door swung open, but Jemma’s initial frustrated disappointment was swept aside as Fitz strode in, as if drawn by her long-distance pheromone call for relief.

“Fitz!” she hissed, suppressing her spike in arousal as he entered in favor of focusing on what was _clearly_ the more important question at hand, “what the _hell,_ this is the _ladies’!_ ”

He didn’t answer, but rather strode to her in a few steps, grasped her about the waist, and spun her up against the door, lining their bodies up completely. He flipped the latch next to her hip, locking the door, and brushed her hair from her shoulder so he could mouth at her collarbone. “You were saying?”

She gasped, pure heat rushing from his lips on her skin to her lower abdomen. Satisfied at their privacy, and frankly unable to care about anything but the man against her, she grabbed his face in both hands and dragged him to her, desperate for his kisses.

He _did_ taste of lime, and salt, and gin, now, and Jemma lapped into his mouth a bit messily, chasing the flavors of Fitz. Perhaps it really was best for everyone if they kept their relationship private; this sort of kissing wouldn’t ever be appropriate in public, and she couldn’t imagine kissing him in any other way, she wanted him so badly. Kissing him was just like teasing him at billiards, or their never-ending academic rivalry, or arguments over favorites from their various television obsessions: heated, affectionate, all-in; the moment one of them gained the upper hand, the other would come up with some new, nibbling at the inside of lips or licking the roof of a mouth or drawing away so the other had to chase.

“You know,” Jemma panted, on one such of the latter occasions, dipping her head out of the way so Fitz ended up moaning against her ear in frustration, “this puts me in mind of something I saw on a show once—“

“ _This_ is what you want to talk about _now_?” he growled, stepping his feet outward so his legs bracketed hers.

“I think you’ll find it informative,” she promised, pressing her hips forward so she could feel his erection. Her breath hitched, and she heard Fitz inhale as well; they both glanced down, mesmerized by the contact. Jemma began to swivel her hips, almost imperceptibly, as she went on. “As I was saying, in this show, this man and this woman were engaging in a compelling flirtation, and they were at a bar, separately, and the woman went to the bathroom and the man came in, dropped to his knees, and went down on her, just like that.”

“Went down, as in—”

“Ate her out,” Jemma murmured, letting her hips fall back against the door so Fitz’s stuttered forward in loss. “Licked her until she came. Just like that. Right there in the bathroom.”

Fitz mumbled something hoarsely and dove back in to kiss her. “Do you want me to do that, Jemma?” he whispered, pupils blown wide, obviously getting hard from the idea of licking her pussy. “The door’s locked, after all.”

There was nothing Jemma could imagine wanting – _needing_ – more, at that moment, but someone banged against the door, calling drunkenly for them to open it.

“You’re sweet,” she sighed, kissing Fitz hard, three times quickly. “But we’ve already been in here too long. You run along and I’ll just… take care of things myself. But I’ll hope you’ll keep it in mind,” she added, and she slid her hand between his legs and palmed him through his jeans. “For next time.”

“I’ll keep it in mind alright,” Fitz said faintly, stepping back to let her out as he unlocked the door. A woman pushed in, not even noting the presence of a man in the ladies’ as she hurried to urinate. “I’ll keep it in mind tonight, as I’m wanking in the shower. Bloody hell.”

“Good.” Jemma glanced through the open door, but the Simmons party wasn’t in view. She snuck a last bite at his earlobe. “Give you some time to brainstorm. I’ll do the same.”

Fitz grinned at her like a dopey, lovesick dog in heat and backed out of the restroom, tugging his t-shirt down over his crotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering , that scene was in Top of the Lake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this on my phone bc my laptop keyboard is kaput soooooo sorry if formatting or anything is weird

Fitz knocked on the window of the toolshed before poking his head in the doorway. "You okay?" 

 

Jemma, seated on the edge of a counter with her elbows on her knees and a frown on her face, glanced up, surprised. "What? Oh, yes, I'm fine." 

 

"Your da sent me to check you'd not accidentally cut your hand off with a saw or something." 

 

"As opposed to unaccidentally cutting it off?" Jemma snapped, then shook her head and scrubbed at her cheeks. "Sorry. I'm just a bit on edge. Needed a moment alone, away from everyone."

 

Fitz, who'd been halfway across the tiny shed with the purpose of comforting her, halted and pivoted away a bit, unsure. "Oh. Then I'll just --"

 

"Not you, silly," Jemma sighed, grabbing his cuff and drawing him to her. "I can still have a moment alone with you around."

 

Fitz's eyebrows shot up in mock offense. "Wow, glad to know my girlfriend doesn't even notice me anymore."

 

"You know what I mean," she grumbled, chucking a few half-hearted punches at his middle before wrapping her arms around him. "I can still be at ease when you're there." 

 

Fitz smiled into her hair. "I do know what you mean."

 

When she withdrew from the embrace, Fitz ran a comforting hand down her shoulder, but Jemma was looking into her lap again. 

 

"To be honest I was avoiding you a bit," she admitted, continuing before Fitz had proper time to panic, "I just feel so foolish, not being able to keep it together, going all googly-eyed when you're around -- well, I like that bit, actually, just the hiding it and having to act like everything's the same as ever, and it just -- it makes me so frustrated!" 

 

Fitz had never known Jemma to be googly-eyed, not even that one time they met the new Academy professor whom everyone called Agent Cheekbones, but he reserved teasing her about it for later. "It's just a few more days and we'll fly back," he reminded her, smoothing the fabric of her flannel shirt over her upper arms. "Then we can do whatever we want. And if it's bothering you that much, we could just tell your parents," he suggested again, offhandedly, not wanting to press the point. 

 

"No," Jemma muttered crossly, then glanced up at him in earnest apology. "Rather -- those are both salient points, and you're absolutely right, of course, Fitz. But my frustration is a bit more... immediate." She could tell he wasnt following, so she tilted her head, rubbing at one eye a bit guiltily as she pressed on, "Frustration of a different sort. Less cerebral. More... bodily." 

 

Fitz only blinked at her. Sighing, Jemma ducked her head to nuzzle, then nip, at his hand on her shoulder. His fingers flexed against her, and then he started and stumbled back.

 

"Oh! Ah. Sorry for the, um, touching, that can't have helped." He hastily scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Couldn't you just, um --" He waved in the general direction of her crotch.

 

"Small house, sound carries," Jemma shrugged. "Same reason we can't, just--" She waved her hand in an inimitation of his confusion. "I came out here half considering it, but there's no lock on the door, and if Dad had come out instead of you-"

 

The mental image of Jemma's father's eyeballs exploding was replaced with one Fitz much preferred. 

 

"Maybe I should help you."

 

"Maybe you SHOULD, being the one responsible and all," she grumbled.

 

"No, Jemma, I -- I'm serious," he said nervously, because as much as was enjoying the NC-17 reel playing in his head, the up-close reality was far more intimidating. 

 

Jemma's eyes went wide. 

 

"You'd do that?" she whispered. 

 

Fitz wondered if there were some sex act he'd forgotten and had accidentally offered

 

"I only meant--" He wiggled his fingers. 

 

"Oh, yes, please," Jemma grinned, already wiggling her shorts down. 

 

Fitz stopped her. "Can you let me --just -- inside the shorts? In case your dad comes out." 

 

Jemma was looking down at his hand on her hip and not paying much attention to what he was saying, but she nodded and left the zip undone, a sliver of light purple fabric peeking out. 

 

Fitz paced to the door. "So if I stand here, with my foot jamming the bottom, I can't reach any of the tables, so you'd have to stand."

 

"I think my dad will know what we're doing if he comes and finds your foot jamming the door," Jemma critiqued.

 

"He might believe it," Fitz rationalized, "Your choice whether it's true."

 

"You do know how to wind me up, don't you, Leopold?" Jemma murmured, looking at him standing there against the door of the ratty little toolshed, hair dusty-looking under the single lightbulb, ready to debauch her at her own request. 

 

Fitz, his heart in his throat, murmured back, "Get over here, Simmons."

 

She fitted easily back against him as he stood with both feet slotted on either side of the door and one hand holding the upper corner closed. Leaving one hand free for her. His spread legs brought him about down to her height, so his breath puffed the back of her hair as she wiggled backwards until she was snug against him. 

 

"Alright, enough of that," Fitz muttered, stopping her motion. "No need me getting worked up as well." His hand on her waist was trembling. "Now, mind yourself and keep quiet or this whole thing'll've been for naught." 

 

Jemma made a pleased noise and snuggled her head back into the crook of his neck, eyes closed. Fitz snorted. 

 

"What?" Jemma demanded, without looking.

 

"You look like you're preparing for a nap, not a thorough fingering." 

 

Jemma squeaked and giggled, shaking against him. "A _thorough fingering_? What sort of porn are you watching?" 

 

"Alright, just, didn't like you acting like I'm about to put you to sleep," Fitz huffed. 

 

"Then stop putting me to sleep!" 

 

"FINE!"

 

He plunged his whole hand into her pants, scooping her whole crotch in his hand. Jemma gasped and her hips left his, though her shoulders still ground against his chest. 

 

"Quiet," he reprimanded, which just earned him a kick at his ankle. 

 

It was different doing it without looking; not that he'd had much occasion to do it before, mind, but he thought he rather liked going off just the feel -- the feel of her pussy, the feel of her trembling. 

 

He stroked the outer lips a few times, getting acquainted, before spreading them with two fingers. Apparently, this was the one part of Jemma that wasn't cold like the rest of her. He traced around the warm moisture just inside -- it was slick, smooth. He imagined running his tongue over it would be a bit like Frenching. 

 

Jemma had wound an arm around his neck, contorting it something awful, but it seemed to work for her, so he took it as a sign to really dive in.

 

He skirted just around her actual entrance, circling it like a marble that goes round and round a funnel without falling in. When satisfied, he drew his now-wet finger up the path to her clit, which he just nudged before going down again. 

 

Jemma let out a shuddering laugh. "Oh, dear, I can already tell what kind of lover you are." 

 

Fitz grinned, nuzzling her cheek. "What kind is that?"

 

"Thorough, attentive, and dreadfully chee--eeekkkyy," the last word drawn out as he rubbed quickly against her clit and descended again. 

 

"The best kind, then," he offered hopefully, as he began to tease her entrance, sliding his middle finger in just up to the first joint, then the second, then sinking it up to the knuckle. 

 

Jemma didn't deign -- or wasn't able -- to answer, as he began driving his finger in and out, artlessly getting the friction he knew would serve its purpose later. On a later plunge, he kept it there, wiggling the tip a bit in quest of her G-spot, and began brushing the heel of his palm over her mound. 

 

"Is this alright?" he whispered; the room was becoming genuinely stuffy with their panting breaths and body heat,  and a normal speaking volume seemed inappropriate. 

 

In reply, Jemma squeezed around his finger. He groaned -- he hadn't known she could do that. 

 

Feeling he'd done all he could down below, he returned fully to the star of the show. Her clit was, if his fingers didn't deceive him, slightly bigger now, becoming swollen with want. He pressed down with his thumb.

 

"It's not a video game," Jemma panted.

 

"Thank God it's not," Fitz chuckled, and he instead set about rubbing across and around and up and down her clit with the pads of two fingers. \

At some point Jemma grabbed his wrist and her own hand was in the mix, showing him how fast and how hard she wanted, and perhaps he should've been offended, but it was frankly seriously arousing and now he'd know for next time. 

 

He felt her orgasm the millisecond before it happened, the peculiar rigidness of every part of her followed by a momentary shuddering and an increase in the moisture on his hand. He cradled her until he thought it was over, then slowly withdrew his hand, trying not to get any of the slick on her shorts. 

 

He tilted back, removing his body from hers, already looking for a spare rag with which to wipe his hand, but Jemma had other ideas. 

 

She spun on the spot and started plundering at his belt. 

 

"Jemma, wha--"

 

"That was brilliant, Fitz," she avowed, and maybe he was just tooting his own horn but she did look all glowy. "But I want -- I need you. I want more."

 

"Jemma--" If she got his trousers open he'd have a much more difficult time arguing his position. "Wha -- we haven't got any condoms--"

 

"I don't care, we're both healthy, I'll just take the pill--"

 

Fitz was shaking his head, pushing her away. "Not like this, Jemma."

 

"Fitz, please-- When I see you, when you _touch_  me, I can't --"

 

"Jemma, not like this!" He had to twist his body to fend off her next attempt and she seemed to realize what she was doing. She stepped back, wiping the sweat from her forehead. "I -- I want to, you know I do. But we've already been doing so much sneaking around and rushing and just... I don't want... I want," he tried again, choosing his words carefully, gaze earnest, "I want you to know this is serious. That we don't have to rush into anything. That -- that I'll still be here tomorrow, and all that." 

 

Jemma watched him a moment, a strange, sad look on her face, and then she stepped up to him so quickly he wondered if he'd have to try to restrain her again. But she just gripped his face in both hands and leaned her forehead against his. 

 

"I know, Fitz."

 

"I know you do," he mumbled, a bit embarrassed. "Just -- wanted to be sure." 

 

 

 

 

Jemma thought a lot about it the next couple of days. Then, on the 18th, just two days before they were to fly back  to Sci-Ops, she made a quick trip into the village. 

 

That night, when her mother's reading light was off and her father had made his second nightly loo visit, she crept up to the guest bedroom, only slightly larger than the one in the attic which Fitz had occupied when the whole family had come round. 

 

"Fitz, love," she whispered, jostling his shoulder gently. When he blinked up at her blearily, she extended the box she'd gone out to buy. "Happy birthday."

 

Fitz mouth quirked up, even as he rolled over (half onto her) to check his alarm. "Not for another five minutes, technically." He squinted at the box, moving it this way and that to try to catch the moonlight. Then -- "RUBBERS?"

 

Jemma smothered the exclamation with both hands. "Shush!" she hissed. Honestly, of all the words for Fitz to shout --

 

"How do you expect me to react, bringing me these in the middle of the night?" He set them gingerly on the mattress and scooted up so he could properly scowl at her. "I told you, Jemma, I'm not rushing this, and I would say trying to do it in the dark while your parents sleep definitely qualifies as rushing it." 

 

"They're not for now, you prat," she sighed. "They're -- a promise. I know it's unconventional, given that for many relationships it's more the emotional bit that requires a promise, not the sex, but--" She shrugged. 

 

"You're just horny," Fitz teased. 

 

"I'll not say I'm not," she said. "But what you said the other night, about still being here tomorrow -- I understood." 

 

Fitz shrugged, toying with the edge of her t-shirt. "Yeah, not much to understand."

 

"I think there was," she countered gently. "I don't think it was about reassuring me... but about reassuring yourself."

 

She was glad he didn't deny it outright, at least. He was silent for a bit.

 

"Jemma," he said softly, "I don't want you to think that I don't trust you--"

 

"I know you trust me," Jemma soothed.

 

"Or that I think you'll throw me over--"

 

"I could never--"

 

"It's just, the expecting things to be long-term, expecting someone you care about to be in your life a year from now -- that doesn't come easy to me. Not anymore."

 

Jemma had surmised as much, from the way he'd pushed her away the other night, even with an obvious boner. 

 

"I know this being a secret hasn't been easy on you," she murmured, winding her fingers with his. "I'm sure that makes it seem all the more tenuous. So I wanted to give you the condoms -- all 72," she grinned, "as a promise to show that I don't need to rush things either. This, us, it isn't temporary or half-hearted. And if," she let out a shuddering breath, "if you'd like me to tell my parents, I'll do it. I want you to feel secure with me, as much as you can." 

 

He pulled her onto his lap, the gesture all sweetness, holding her on top of the sheets. "I wouldn't want you to do something that would risk an estrangement between you and your parents."

 

"I know. And I appreciate that. But if that ever changes -- I mean, if it becomes so important that they know, that we share that with them -- I'll do it." 

 

He smiled, eyes roving her face, not seeming to be searching for anything, just looking. "Maybe we could call my mum from the airport, let her know." 

 

"I'd like that." 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Far too soon for Jemma's parents, but not nearly soon enough for Jemma, the date of their flight back to America arrived. She'd never have imagined, when they'd first arrived in Perthshire and everything had been golden-tinged and magnificent and joyful, that she'd ever want to leave. But, well, she thought, as Fitz wandered down the stairs several hours after Jemma had finished packing, things change quickly. She'd found a new source of joy that would travel with her once they left Scotland. 

 

After a last breakfast and a short stroll along the lane, she and Fitz began carrying their luggage out to the drive. Somehow their bags seemed heavier than when they'd arrived; Jemma suspected her parents had snuck in biscuits and snacks and maybe a bottle or two of something after she'd done her inktial packing. She resisted the urge to open her case and check that everything was still in order; her parents were intelligent individuals, certainly competent enough to wrap a Scotch bottle in cushioning material, and besides, this way she'd be surprised when they got back to their flat at Sci-Ops. 

 

Their flat. It has a much different sound to it, now, when she ran over the words in her mind. Before, they'd been two colleagues with barely a single dating life between them. Now -- would they keep their separate bedrooms? Or should they sleep in one room and convert the other into a guest bedroom, an office, a small home gym? Would they have date nights? They already spent most of their nights together anyway, doing date-like activities -- maybe nothing would change,  except for adding  in a bit of kissing and hand-holding. How should they behave at work? Should they tell people? She'd need to begin drawing up a to-do list on the plane. 

 

"Don't scowl, love, you can come back home anytime you want," her father murmured, catching the look of concentration on her face. 

 

"It's not that," she reassured him. "It's just -- I was just thinking how sad I am our holiday's over," she lied.

 

He patted her gently on the back and meandered towards the loaded car, where he leaned against the boot. 

 

Fitz came trotting alone the little lane, clutching something. Jemma shielded her eyes against the sun as he approached. 

 

"Almost forgot this," he panted, grinning proudly. 

 

He uncupped his hands to reveal a small scraping of the lichen she'd remarked upon, on that day they'd snogged against a tree. 

 

Jemma laughed and stroked the surface with a gentle fingertip. "You know American customs wouldn't allow this through, Fitz."

 

"Sure, but if we've got a minute, you could try to capture it with your da's high-res camera, and work from that. It's better than nothing." 

 

Jemma shook her head, not for the first time struck by his easy thoughtfulness. "Some girls get dying flowers," she murmured to herself as she went to fetch the camera. "I really did get lucky."

 

She nearly ran into her mother in the doorway of the cottage and slipped to the side to let her pass -- then froze as she realized what her mother had been carrying. 

 

"Fitz, dear!" Mrs. Simmons called sweetly, striding towards him as Jemma turned to stop her, tripped over her own ankles, and caught herself on the car. "You left these in your room, dear."

 

Fitz turned ashen as she extended the box of condoms towards him. Mr. Simmons coughed. 

 

"I--" Fitz was clearly floundering. "Can't get that brand in the States?" he choked out, not sounding at all convinced by his own explanation. "St-stocking up for later." 

 

Jemma, who'd been hiding behind her hands hoping she was dreaming the whole thing, peeked through her fingers, and the sight of Fitz -- still holding the lichen he'd tracked down for her -- walloped her direct in the heart. Suddenly, she didn't give a damn what her parents might or might not think. 

 

"They're not his!" she blurted out. Three surprised faces tracked her movement as she hurried to stand next to him. Fitz opened his mouth but she quickly grabbed his wrist and slid her fingertips down to take his free hand. "They're ours. Mine and Fitz's. We haven't used them or anything, but -- they're ours. Because we --" She looked to Fitz for support and confirmation and he looked as terrified as she felt but he was also beginning to smile, that fragile, tender smile he seemed to save for her. "We're together," she finished firmly, feeling Fitz squeeze her sweaty palm. "Romantically. We're dating."

 

Mrs. Simmons frowned for a moment, still extending the condom box. "Well of course you are, dear. We've known for weeks."

 

Fitz and Jemma's jaws dropped in uncanny unison. 

 

"You HAVE?" Jemma gasped. 

 

"Of course, dear. The house is tiny, the walls are thin, and with all of us living practically on top of each other, it was rather obvious. You're scientists, not spies, after all."

 

Fitz had achieved a new shade of fuschia previously unknown to man. Jemma knew what he was thinking: running through anything they'd said in the dark intimacy of his attic bedroom, wondering how much the family had actually heard. 

 

"Why didn't you say anything?" Jemma demanded. 

 

"Why didn't YOU?" her father chuckled. 

 

"I thought --" She blew out a breath that sent her bangs whooshing up. "I thought you'd disapprove."

 

Mrs. Simmons looked suddenly sad. "I'm sorry you felt that way, love. I thought you knew you could always be honest with us."

 

"Of course I do!" Jemma said quickly. "But with dating it's always been different. I've been your little girl, and you've been so careful and critical, like no one is good enough. And Fitz --" She looked back at him. His eyebrows rose under the intensity of her gaze. Looping her arm through his, she turned back to her mother with a shaky smile. "Fitz is special beyond words, Mum. I was afraid -- afraid you'd find him wanting, and I'd have to choose between you, and him."

 

"She's not wrong about our being a bit overly...attentive," said Mr. Simmons, moving to stand next to his wife so they mirrored the younger pair. "But Jemma, you *have* found someone good enough. We're not too daft to see that."

 

"Frankly we're thrilled," admitted Mrs. Simmons, now nearly in tears. 

 

"Oh,  mum," murmured Jemma, embarrassed and touched, and she hurried to hug her mother tightly. 

 

"Alright, alright, enough of that," Mrs. Simmons laughed, patting her daughter before pushing her away. "Have to get you two to the airport. Much as I'd like you to stay forever -- and you are welcome *anytime*, Fitz, dear -- I understand you have places to be."

 

As they bundled into the backseat of the car, Jemma grinned in disbelief at Fitz. "Well, that went rather well!"

 

"I feel right daft," he sighed, but he too was smiling, relieved. "Thinking we were fooling everyone."

 

"At least it'll be a surprise for *your* mum," she reassured him, patting his leg. 

 

Fitz winced. "Actually, it might not be, not as much as you'd think. My mum's always thought I had it bad for you. Didn't know how right she was." 

 

Jemma shook her head. "Our parents are too smart by half."

 

"Damn right!" both her parents called from the front seat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! That all I've got for this one. Hoping to finish Masters of Science and Batman before working on some new things. Also I promise I read and adore all comments, just haven't had a chance to answer them.


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